


What a horrid, common name

by grumpy_sunshine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Epistolary, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpy_sunshine/pseuds/grumpy_sunshine
Summary: In which Draco comes across a self-help book which suggests writing letters to people whom one has wronged, as a way of achieving closure. He might have been coerced to write these letters, but he is certainly not going to write any letters to a man with a name like John. Now, Maximus, that’s a good, cultured name. He could write letters to Maximus.Unusual Careers - Draco Malfoy is a columnist, Harry Potter is a teacher.Update 19 Nov 2020: Taking a short break from this, planning only a temporary one for now.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. What’s in a name?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, first time trying out a full-fledged story and quite nervous but I hope you enjoy! I expect this to be 3-5 chapters long unless something changes drastically. Also my first attempt at smut so please be kind!
> 
> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!
> 
> I own nothing.

A horrid, common name ‘John’, Draco thought to himself as he looked at his newest acquisition – a brand-new copy of the book ‘Dear John Reimagined: Closure Made Easy’ by Alexandra Humboldt. Draco was curious about this book - it was the new book which had taken the Wizarding world by storm. Alleged to contain a mixture of Muggle self-care tips and Wizarding mind-healing techniques dumbed-down from plebeians, Humboldt had achieved fame with her book. The sales were skyrocketing, rumour had it that it had gone for a third reprint in as many months.

Draco, with his (self-proclaimed) impeccable taste in men, food, wine and all matters of good taste, thought he may as well figure out what the fuss was all about. A secondary and more mercenary objective was the fact that the Malfoy coffers had not yet recovered from the ‘reparations’ of the war, and although Draco could in theory understand the need for these reparations, he had also had to lower himself – at least in Lucius’ opinion – to needing a job like a commoner.

Draco himself was quite happy with his job – as an anonymous critic of all things high society and all things popular. His impossibly high standards meant that he was never pleased, and his acerbic tongue ensured that his displeasure was expressed in a pithy and very entertaining manner for anyone who chose to subscribe to the Daily Prophet’s sister magazine ‘Weekend Oracle’. Draco’s column, ‘Fancy That’ was a weekly column reviewing – albeit usually criticizing – whichever fad had lately overtaken the Wizarding world. From the Saviour’s Savories, a café with black-haired waiters (“…a pathetic attempt to capitalize on the victory of the Twice-Lived Saviour over the His Noselessness”) to the latest offering from Ogden’s firewhiskeys (“…a word would suffice - swill”) – Draco reviewed them all.

So, with a glass of merlot in his hand and good old John on his lap (the book, naughty), Draco looked towards his weekend with reasonable anticipation. Five years after the War, capitalized as it would always be in his mind, Draco’s low-drama, low-excitement life was a hard-won thing and something he had not expected to be able to achieve. With the anticipation of a new book to read, Draco took a large sip from his drink and got to it.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Several hours later, Draco emerged from the daze he had fallen into while reading the book. He was, quite frankly, shocked at how absorbed he had been, he couldn’t remember the last time he had finished a book in a single sitting. While the book was fresh in his mind, Draco started on his first draft:

> … _those familiar with your humble servant’s columns will no doubt be shocked to hear it, but Dear John Reimagined by Alexandra Humboldt has broken my book drought. Picking it up over the weekend, I was pleasantly surprised by the depth of the book. Alexandra takes her readers on her journey from someone who was, to say the least, a not-so-great person to someone who while still not being her best version, is aware of her flaws and works hard to move on from past mistakes and transform into a better version of her old self. The reader is invited to partake in this journey if they so desire, to admit their mistakes and free themselves from the burden of their many grave errors, to finally take a deep breath and feel the burden of their past lifted, at least for a while…_

Draco straightened up as if zapped – this would never do. What he had written so far would simply not do! It was far too… saccharine. His entire brand was built around his tongue-in-cheek reviews. He was famous (for a given value of the term) for his biting wit and sarcasm, his Editor was always forwarding letters written about his column and most people writing in – fans and detractors alike – reacted to that wit and that cutting prose. To now write a review that was sincere and appreciative, Draco feared, would never be well-received when the readers were accustomed to a very different type of content.

Plus, Draco thought that his reviews did reveal something of his personality, even if not his identity. You could build an image of the author from his views and his language: someone with high standards, exquisite taste, someone who understood his position in society as an arbiter of fashion, and most of all, someone who was a jaded cynic. Someone who could be counted on to entertain and to devastate with his words, but not someone who would openly wear his feelings on his sleeve, visible on his face and in his impossibly green eyes. If this hypothetical someone was to have green eyes, of course. This was definitely a hypothetical someone who was definitely **_not_** constantly on the covers of Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Weekend Oracle and every other publication, his eyes and his frown and his set shoulders broadcasting his discomfort and annoyance at being photographed to the whole world.

So no, Draco affirmed it to himself, being _vulnerable and sincere_ was too Gryffindor-ish a quality to be found in any self-respecting Slytherin, and Draco definitely was a Slytherin, whether or not he could qualify as self-respecting after the whole Snake-Eyes fiasco. He struck out the words he had already written and began afresh, with the right perspective.

> … _your not-so-humble servant availed himself of the opportunity to read ‘Dear John Reimagined’ authored by Alexandra Humboldt to fulfil the needs of his many readers. After all, if a book is taking the Wizarding world by storm, it can hardly do so without passing my scrutiny. So, dear readers, let us dive into the murky, babbling waters of Ms. Humboldt’s book. I was shocked to find this book to be quite interesting – as interesting as watching water boil, even. The book starts with a painful (for the reader’s brain) backstory where Ms. Humboldt pontificates on her innumerable and insufferably boring transgressions and then moves into her journey to ‘self-actualisation’ (a word to which your not-so-humble servant was introduced by this book) by writing but not sending letters to people she had wronged._
> 
> _It would appear, if Ms. Humboldt’s emotional claptrap is to be believed, by putting words to paper, she finally acknowledged how she had wronged people in her past and she was able to forgive herself and reaffirm her commitment to ‘being a good person’ or some equally sappy sentiment. Upon reading the book, my only sympathy was towards the many people who have already paid good money for this book and will, after reading this review, find that they have wasted their money on a book which seems to be written for a painfully naïve audience. Ms. Humboldt’s wordy manuscript, which sucked up four precious hours from your not-so-humble servant’s precious time, is nothing more than a clumsy attempt to commercialise the overly-sentimental idea that mistakes can be forgotten just by writing some self-pitying tripe and crying over the past._
> 
> _An idea for the simple-minded masses if there ever was one – anyone with breeding knows that mistakes are to be remembered, grudges to be held, and most of all, feelings are to be hidden lest they be exploited. Ms. Humboldt has done nothing more than reveal her own lack of sophistication with her book, and as such, this book definitely does not make the cut._

Much more pleased with his second attempt, Draco put away his work to be sent to his Editor first thing the next morning for review. He was confident. No one would gainsay his view. After all, he _was_ the last word in everything high society and popular. So what if Alexandra Humboldt’s raw honesty about her past mistakes had made something clench in Draco’s stomach for a minute? That was probably just the salmon disagreeing with him.


	2. Draco Malfoy, Man of (Scheduled) Action

As the sun’s rays hit the window of Draco’s bedroom, his Tempus Charm chimed to wake him up at 7.30, as it did every morning except Monday mornings. One of the best parts of his ordered existence was the fact that Draco had complete control over how his day would go. No longer was he the unwilling resident of a house that had been the domain of a crazed maniac; no longer did he have to wake up every morning with complete terror thinking about what fresh horror the day would bring. Instead, he awoke to peace and quiet in his home on the outskirts of London, no maniacs to worry about. He knew that Lucius had never forgiven him for ‘abandoning his legacy’ by leaving the Manor and moving to his own house, but after the War and his house arrest, Draco only had bad memories of that house remaining, so when he finally reached the age of 21 and his house arrest ended and he came in possession of his vault at Gringotts, Draco’s first action was to move out and start looking for his own place.

For a while, he had stayed with Blaise, whose mother was living in Italy with her newest husband, while Blaise took over the business left after the (“accidental” and “totally unexpected”) death of his previous stepfather. Living with Blaise had been comfortable because they were used to each other, and if they were not the best of friends that was all the better, since Draco preferred solitude to company for the most part. Still, Draco had known then that his goal was to find a home of his own, and when he chanced upon ‘Primrose Cottage’ in Bexleyheath, despite its atrociously twee name, he had bought it immediately. His first act as owner of course was to change the name from Primrose Cottage to a much more appropriate ‘Ouroborus House’.

So, as he did every day but Monday, Draco rose from bed and set to making breakfast. Today was a Sunday, so he would make a proper fry-up, and a steaming mug of tea, enjoying a luxurious breakfast reading his own column (this week’s column had a scathing review of Marcus Flint’s new pub, which served the absolute worst house red Draco had ever had the misfortune to taste); and reading the columns in other publications which were knock-offs of his own – trying and failing to recapture the essence of his reviews.

Sitting down to breakfast, Draco flipped through the Daily Prophet – much as he hated that dross, it paid to stay updated when one’s career relied on reviewing the latest fads. As always, Potter had been photographed no fewer than 6 times in the paper, going in and out of shops in Diagon Alley, with thinly-veiled insinuations that he had developed various unsavoury habits after quitting the Aurors a year ago. Draco grimaced as he took in Potter’s glare from the cover of the Prophet: if looks could kill, the photographer for this shot would be dead ten times over. The cover photo seemed to be of Potter leaving a pub late some night. He was with a companion, although only a profile was visible, so it was unclear if the companion was the Weasley sister or some new paramour.

So absorbed was Draco in his study of Potter’s photo and thinking about the identity of his companion, purely as a matter of journalistic interest of course; that Draco’s tea had gone completely cold; a fact of which he became aware when he took an absentminded sip that he spat out in disgust. Sighing, Draco used a quick Heating Charm on his tea, even though he knew it would taste off after being heated magically. He chided himself for reading the trash that the Prophet printed and studiously avoided looking at Potter’s photo for the remainder of his breakfast, immersing himself at his own column.

The rest of the day passed almost in a blur, with his full-time work training for his Potions Mastery and his column writing during the week, Draco invariably had chores to do on his days off. As he worked in his small patch of a garden which grew basil and tomatoes, mentally checking it off his list of chores, Draco chuckled internally at what his 11-year-old self would have thought had he known that working for his livelihood, staying in almost all nights of the week and doing his own housework was the future he had to look forward to. Draco almost laughed out loud when he remembered that a favourite daydream of 11-year-old Draco had been marrying a well-bred and beautiful woman and taking over all the Malfoy business concerns while being an admired and respected member of society, with people kowtowing to his wishes and accepting his word as the final say in all matters.

The reality of his life as a 23-year-old could not be more different than his imaginings at 11. By the time he turned 14, he had already realized that the possibility of a beautiful wife was close to none if he had his way. His interests very clearly lay with the male sex, as his wanking fantasies about Oliver Wood had proven at Hogwarts. By 16, there hadn’t been much of a future to think about, with Lucius trying to work his way back into the favour of Voldemort, dragging Draco with him further and further into a spiral that Draco fully expected would result in his own painful and early demise either at the hands of Voldemort or his Death Eaters.

Draco suddenly realized he had overwatered his tomato plant so badly he could almost hear the plant drowning and gasping for breath, and he quickly charmed away the extra water from the plant, murmured a quick apology to it for his distraction (Merlin, he was talking to plants now) and went in to make himself a soothing cup of tea and find something else to occupy his time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

On Monday morning, the noted exception to the 7.30 rule, Draco found himself blinking awake when the sun was much higher in the sky than expected. Casting a Tempus, Draco found to his shock that it was close to 11. Although Draco had built-in Monday as the day he had a lie-in, he never woke later than 9, so he quickly got washed and dressed, ready to take on the rest of Monday. He may not have an alarm for Monday but that didn’t mean he had no schedule for the day. On Mondays, his Editor would usually owl back with comments on Draco’s latest column, which Draco would work on all day and send the final version by evening for publication the coming Sunday.

With complete expectation that his Monday would go as his Mondays always did, Draco was just settling into his study waiting for the owl to show up, when he heard a Floo call coming through his fireplace. In his living room, he found Pansy Parkinson, dusting off the Floo powder from her magenta robes. She turned towards him with a grace he knew she had perfected with practice, and he was once again taken aback at how striking a figure she made in her magenta robes with her mouth a bright slash of pink, constrasting perfectly with her sleek black bob and terrifyingly high heels.

She had always been striking, but over the last few weeks, Draco had noticed that she seemed more settled as a person, somehow more relaxed. Knowing Pansy as he did, Draco would have assumed it was her new love interest, but she had not mentioned anyone lately, and Pansy could not keep a secret to save her life. Sometimes almost literally, as blurting out her terrible idea that Harry Potter should be handed over to the Dark Lord had been one of those times she had said something with the distinct possibility of being injurious to her health, if not downright fatal.

“Pansy, darling, you look amazing as always. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Draco asked, moving towards Pansy with a smile. Pansy gave him a haughty look from under her lashes, which he took to mean he had displeased her in some way; he did not yet know what, but undoubtedly he was about to find out.

“Draco, none of your sweet talk. I am not in the mood to be trifled with. What is this rot?” Pansy practically threw a sheet of parchment at Draco. He opened it to see that it was his early draft for this column.

“So I take it you are here in the capacity of my Editor’s assistant and not my friend” Draco smirked, knowing that Pansy would be affronted at being called Editor’s assistant rather than Assistant Editor. “And anyway, what do you mean rot? I think it should be amply clear that Alexandra Humboldt and her nonsensical book do not pass muster by my standards.”

“Exactly. That’s the rot I’m talking about. Your review is completely disingenuous!” Pansy seemed to have gotten quite worked up over this issue. It was rare for her to even come in person to talk about his columns. Draco usually sent the piece to her first, she was the only one other than his Editor who was aware of his identity. She was in the habit of sending back her comments by Monday lunchtime, and after his revision, the column would go to the Editor for final review.

“Pansy, dear, you’re not making any sense. Can I offer you a drink so we can sit down and discuss this like reasonable adults? I can’t imagine why my review of this book has you up in arms. It is hardly the masterpiece of the century. A more hackneyed and poorly expressed book, I have not had the misfortune to encounter!” Draco exclaimed, hoping to move Pansy from her current stance, standing with her arms folded at her chest, with a strict look on her face.

Alas, it was unsuccessful. Turning her glare up a notch, Pansy seemed disinclined to move from her present position. “Draco, you and I both know that Alexandra Humboldt’s book is a moving and heart-wrenching story of a person’s reckoning with their past! Of all people, you and I should know how difficult that can be! Your review paints her book as some opportunistic drivel meant to make money from people’s misery, and that simply won’t stand!” she bit out furiously.

Well, Pansy seemed to have come determined on a fight, so a fight she would have. Draco gave her his most arrogant smirk – “Why, Pansy darling, you talk as if you’ve actually read the book and we both know you don’t read. So why don’t you stick to what you do best – shopping, gossiping, occasionally working, and let me focus on the reading and reviewing?” By the time he finished his sentence, Pansy’s eyes were narrowed with anger.

Taking a deep breath to collect herself, Pansy responded with unexpected calmness. “Draco, you and I both know that nothing makes me angrier than being underestimated and you and I both know that you’re trying to get me to lose my temper and leave in a huff so quit it. I can’t explain everything right now, my lunch break is almost over, but I will be telling the Editor that you want to revise your column for this week and I’ll be back in the evening for a drink so we can talk properly.”

Draco was displeased. Not only had his tactic not worked and Pansy had seen right through it, her insistence on returning tonight would completely mess up his routine. His face must have given away his objections, she added “And don’t give me that look Draco Malfoy, your routine could use some changing once in a while and if you even try to bar the Floo, I swear I will tell Narcissa how you’re avoiding all your friends and how worried we all are about you and you’ll have her and Lucius over in a moment, ready to hover all around you!” With that final word, she turned and Flooed away.

Out-maneouvered by Pansy’s Slytherin strategems, Draco resigned himself to a complete disrupted evening schedule and decided to complete his evening tasks in advance to prepare for Pansy.


	3. With friends like these, who needs enemies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in uploading this chapter! Work has been bonkers! Kudos and comments are so so so appreciated!

By 9 pm that night, when Pansy had still not shown up, Draco was almost hopeful that she had changed her mind and was willing to let his column be published in its present form. However, if he was realistic, knowing Pansy as he did, Draco was doubtful that she would have forsaken the chance to yell at him for his perceived flaws in the way that only one’s bossy best friend could.

Sure enough, just as Draco was about to start making his post-prandial chamomile tea when his Floo dinged and Pansy came back through, still dressed in her work clothes and somehow looking as fresh as she had earlier. Maybe yelling at your friends kept you youthful and energetic? Draco wondered if he should try doing more of it before realizing that his only close friend was Pansy and she would definitely yell back.

If Draco had hoped that the last few hours would make Pansy a bit more amenable, he realized he was doomed to disappointment as soon as she walked into the room.

“So, darling, when are you planning on getting over yourself?”

Draco resented the implication that he was not ‘over himself’ and proceeded to tell Pansy so in his most no-nonsense tone. Predictably, it had no effect on her. Unless smirking at him counted as an effect, and if it did, it certainly wasn’t the desired effect.

“Draco, it’s late and my shoes, although beautiful, are hell to stand around in, so I’m just going to cut to the chase: for the last five years, I have been waiting – patiently and then less patiently – for you to move on from the trauma of the War. At first, I understood that you needed time. Of all of us, you were the most affected and you had to deal with your Trials and those of your parents. After that, it was getting our NEWTs and finding work, so that also I understood – but Draco it has been three years that you’ve been working as a columnist and you’re almost done with your Potions Mastery. You have made something good from the ashes of our childhood but you are still stuck at 17, shell-shocked and unable to process anything and I am no longer capable of waiting patiently or otherwise!” Pansy ended on a huff, breathless from her monologue.

Draco looked at her blankly, and with experience borne from knowing him from the age of 4 and being more than familiar with his expressions, Pansy knew that he was not far from losing his temper. In the next moment, Draco’s face was red with fury, and he exploded.

“For fuck’s sake Pansy, I have NO idea where you think you get off with your bloody righteousness. _Draco, darling, you need to move on_ ” he imitated her tone (rather poorly in Pansy’s opinion but she wisely kept quiet, Draco was far from done.) “You seem to have forgotten, Pansy, that we were not part of the War as the good guys. Certainly I was not. We were the bad guys; do you understand that? We were the people who were defeated. I don’t know in what godforsaken world I am expected to ‘move on’ from this! I’m not like the precious Gryffindor war heroes who deserve to have Mind Healers and happy endings with their red-headed wives. I am the villain. I deserved to be in Azkaban. I got away with my wrongdoing on a technicality, Pansy! As if being underage meant that I was not fully aware of what I did, as if I don’t have to live with the fact that my whole life was based on bigotry. You think I should move on from that? I should move on from the fact that I have caused the death of so many people. That I was part of the side who were murdering and torturing and dismembering – and – and…”

Suddenly, Draco found it impossible to continue. This was exactly why he never thought about these things! The memories came rushing back – being in his sixth year and trying his hardest to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, terrified of what would happen to his mother if he failed. Being in seventh year and being in school forced to torture other students, not knowing how to stop and if he even wanted to stop, when the alternative was being tortured himself. He remembered with complete clarity looking at Potter’s face at the Manor, being asked whether it was him. He remembered the sick terror of not knowing whether to say yes or not. He remembered with a pain that was almost physical, the feeling of Fiendfyre at his back, of Greg’s screams as Vince was consumed by the flames. He remembered the hot shame of being on Trial, of being at the mercy of those very people whom he had belittled and finding that they had mercy for him, even though he deserved none.

As the memories kept rushing, Draco felt his chest getting tighter, every breath harder to take than the last. His head was pounding. He could feel the blood rushing in his veins. He could feel the memories swirling in his head, unable to pause them, unable to leave the suffocating feeling of realizing that his life was built on lies and hatred. Draco could feel Pansy standing next to him as he grabbed her arm, trying desperately to breathe in her comforting scent, that unmistakable combination of ylang-ylang and lavender which was her signature perfume.

Pansy was stroking an arm down his back when he came back to his senses, making shushing noises that sounded so maternal and comforting that they should have felt out of place from Pansy, but somehow soothed him nevertheless. “Sshh, my darling, you’re okay. You’re safe. You’re with me in your house. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.” Pansy was whispering to him, and despite his recent panic attack, Draco let out a tired chuckle at her last sentence. “M-my sweet, _I_ am the bad thing that happens to people, or did we not grow up together?”

Her temporary maternal urges having passed, Pansy biffed him on the head. “None of your nonsense, Draco. I am not apologizing for what I said. I would never hurt you for all the Galleons in the world, but this just proves my point. Shutting your memories down and pretending like they never happened is not the same thing as recovery, Draco. You are still completely guilt-ridden and this will never go away until you face your fears and acknowledge that for all your mistakes and wrongdoings, you were a child. You were a child reared with the same terrible principles that we all were, raised by parents who bred them into us and expected us to live up to those principles, and eventually you were a captive, forced to do a monster’s bidding in order to protect your family and friends. The world will never be ready to forgive you if you don’t ask for forgiveness, and you will never ask for forgiveness if you don’t think you deserve it.”

“Very Hufflepuff of you, Pans, all these _feelings_.”

“Draco, for fuck’s sake. It’s late and I am all out of patience with you. This book could be good for you. Maybe you will finally be able to acknowledge that you also suffered and you also survived. And having survived, you need to actually live! Oh Salazar I need a drink for this! Your hard head is too much for me to handle sober.” With that, Pansy marched over to his drinks cabinet and started pulling out bottles as Draco watched with a bemused expression. Pansy then bustled over into his kitchen and finally came back out followed by floating glasses and bottles. As she sat down on the couch next to Draco, she started pouring out the drinks from the bottles which were now hovering nearby.

“Pansy, what the fuck are these bottles and how did they get into my house?” Draco hissed at her, annoyed both by her preaching and the fact that she seemed to be more familiar with his alcohol cabinet than he was.

Pansy smirked at him, “This is the Muggle version of Veritaserum, darling. They call it Truth Serum, and I tried it last month when I was out with Ne---new friends. And as for how these bottles got here, that is quite easy – I just brought them over the last time we met and put them at the back of your cabinet. I knew you would never find them, given that you never drink anything but a glass of Firewhiskey on your own, and the only other person who comes to this house is Blaise and I know that prick always brings his own elf-made wine because everything else is just too lowly for his self-professed exquisite taste.”

Once again, Draco was reminded of what a Slytherin Pansy was, and also how well she could read him. He watched as she poured some brandy, some orange liqueur and lemon juice into two glasses, taking one for herself and passing the other to him.

“A Muggle concoction, darling – well, well, you certainly have moved on from your school years. Who exactly are these new friends, Pansy? I don’t remember you mentioning them, and you have been looking especially lively lately. Anything interesting to share?” Draco quirked his eyebrow at Pansy, taking the glass and sniffing it tentatively before taking a sip. “This is surprisingly good” he added somewhat grudgingly.

For a minute he thought Pansy looked shifty-eyed, but then she looked straight at him and he thought he must have imagined the look. “Draco, we are not here to talk about me and any new friends I may be making – and for your information, shagging a new bloke every week is not the only thing that makes me happy. Unlike you, I actually enjoy spending time with people and going out. Not all of us choose to be recluses and behave as if going out twice a week would be the heights of hedonism. We are here to talk about this excuse of a review you wrote on Alexandra Humboldt’s book and why you need to change it.”

“Finally,” Draco murmured, “we are getting to the actual reason you came here. I almost thought you had only come to harangue me over non-existent problems.”

Pansy glared at him, gulped down her drink in one go and continued as if he had not said anything. “Draco, for Salazar’s sake stop talking rot and let me finish my point while you finish your drink. Despite your juvenile assertions in the afternoon, I have read Alexandra’s book and I do think you are not doing it justice. The book is written with the best of intentions and could improve the lives of many people who are living with their past mistakes and fears. Your review makes the book sound both useless and manipulative and that could not be further from the truth.” Pansy pulled out her wand and refilled both their drinks again.

Taking a healthy gulp, Draco felt like he was back on solid ground. He could argue about this stupid book for hours. It was his own life and his own sodding failures he did not want to talk about.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Several drinks later, Draco could see that his many eloquent arguments had failed to move Pansy from her frankly ridiculous defense of the Humboldt novel. A sneaky voice whispered in Draco’s conscience that he too had been positively impacted by the book when he had first read it, but he firmly ignored that voice and resolutely kept arguing.

Unfortunately, it was possible that the several drinks had impacted his persuasive ability somewhat, because he was sure he had made his point before – “s-s-so Pansy darling, it just cannot stand, you see. This book epi-epimot-epitomises everything goody-two-shoes and soft and everything I don’t condone. If this Alexandra witch is to be believed, you can just apologise for your mistakes and everyone will forgive you! You know that’s not true Pans! First of all, if I started apologizing to everyone I hurt, that would have to become my only task for years to accomplish, and also!” Draco hiccupped and took another good swallow of his drink, “these are really quite potent for drinks that Muggles came up with. Anyway, as I was sh-sh-shaying – imagine if I went up to Granger or Weasley or even Potter and apologized to them about my mistakes! They would be more likely to curse me than forgive me, and I say this knowing their painful Gryffindor dislike of Dark curses. So there!” Draco felt that his ending probably needed some work, but he was sure this argument would have convinced Pansy.

To his dismay, Pansy looked at him with something closely resembling sympathy, which was not at all what Draco had been aiming for. He was not looking for her sympathy; he was looking for her admission that his arguments made sense. Despite having matched him drink for drink, Pansy was looking worryingly sober and serious. “Draco, that’s not true. We went back to Hogwarts for Eighth Year and they never cursed us or did anything to us, in fact, they were quite kind to us, all things considered. Typical do-gooding Gryffs!” Instead of that last statement sounding like an epithet, it almost sounded _fond,_ which was fairly unlike Pansy, as far as Draco knew. Nevertheless, Pansy was engaging with his argument, which meant that Draco still had a chance to convince her.

“Pansy, Pansy, Pansy, you poor innocent soul” Draco was surprised he could say that with a serious face, but he ploughed on, “you’re confused about their intentions! I admit, none of the Golden Trio cursed us in Hogwarts, and for that matter, they may even have defended us a time or two when some gits tried to attack us, but that does not mean they want our apologies or regret or friendship or affection! This simply won’t do, Pansy, you’re withering away waiting for their affection and you’re never going to get it. You must move on, Pansy dearest, this moping isn’t good for you.” Draco was sure this argument would have convinced her. It had to.

Busy as she was pouring out their fifth (sixth? Seventh? Merlin!) drink, Draco missed the smirk on Pansy’s face before she adjusted her expression to be appropriately severe. “Draco, are we talking about me or you? I’m not the one who was obsessed with Potter in school, I’m not the one who had to tutor Potter for Advanced Potions in our Eighth Year on Slughorn’s request so that he would consider your application for the Mastery and talked incessantly about how bad at Potions he was all fucking year, and I am _certainly_ not the one pining for his or anyone else’s affection.”

“Potter was terrible at Potions! Good think he didn’t have to defend wizarding kind with a potion or we would all be dead! And more to the point - I was not _obsessed with_ Potter! We were rivals! Arch-nemesisis…nemeses! We hated each other and we were on opposite sides of the war and if anyone was obsessed with anyone it was Potter who was obsessed with me! Don’t you remember him following me around all year – I had to get Greg and Vince to…” at that, Draco’s voice trailed off, unwilling to linger on memories of Greg or Vince; one lost forever and the other lost to him – it was too painful to consider.

Pansy pushed another drink in his face but being a cold-hearted bitch, was not discouraged. She continued as if he had not trailed off mid-sentence. “Call it what you will Draco, you can’t even mention their names without choking up; any reference to Hogwarts makes you panic and you don’t meet anyone except Blaise and me! This is not called living, it’s called dwelling in the bloody past and I’m done being patient with you! Here’s my ultimatum: you will come out with me once a week for the next month, without asking where we’re going and you will write one letter a week as Alexandra Humboldt’s book suggests and if at the end of the month I am convinced that you are happy and recovered, I promise to leave you alone.”

Draco wasn’t sorted into Slytherin just so he could accept the first offer on the table. “No deal, you bloody bint. Two outings with you, _only_ if you tell me where we will go in advance and no go on the letters because they’re a fucking waste of time. I keep telling you, I’m abso-fucking-lutely peachy.”

And so they went back and forth, almost devolving into another few arguments before Pansy banged her hand on the table so hard all the glasses and bottles toppled. Fortunately, Draco and Pansy had emptied all of their contents beforehand. “Draco Lucius Malfoy you will agree to this deal right this minute or I’ll know why. Three outings – one a week and I’ll tell you where we’re going but only an hour in advance and you will write two letters and send both to me as proof that you’ve actually followed through. In exchange, I will give the Editor an older piece of yours as this week’s piece and if at the end of the two weeks I am convinced that you’re as ‘abso-fucking-lutely peachy’ as you claim, _then and only then_ will you be able to publish your atrocious column.”

Knowing when he was beaten, and more to the point, knowing when Pansy had reached the point that trifling with her would be dangerous to his health and well-being, Draco nodded tiredly. “My only condition – you are not allowed to tell anyone about these letters or that I’m writing them or I swear to Salazar I will destroy you” Draco said, with what he hoped was a terrifying look.

Unsurprisingly, Pansy looked only amused. “Okay, Draco, I will never tell anyone about these letters unless you want me to. Now, I must be off so see you next time, darling. And remember – I’ll be waiting on the first letter by this time next week _and_ I’ll be in touch about our first outing. Do restock on the ingredients for our drink! Ta!” With a wave that was too cheeky for how late it was, Pansy closed her eyes and Apparated away, leaving Draco with all the clean-up.

That conniving bint, Draco thought to himself, but it was more with affection than anger.


	4. Of Dreams and Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SO sorry for all this delay - work has been bonkers. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I would be so happy with kudos and comments!

**Note:** From this chapter onwards, Draco’s inner monologue while he writes letters will be _italicized_ and the actual letters will be underlined. 

One advantage of today’s otherwise disastrous evening was that Draco was truly sozzled in a way he had not allowed himself to be the last 5 years. Partly because being sozzled on a regular basis did not really lend itself to an orderly life; and partly because in the horrific days of his sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts he had been more often drunk than not, finding alcohol the only solace in an otherwise terrifying world. Once Voldemort was defeated, Draco promised himself that he would never be in a situation where alcohol dependency was the only way to survive.

At this point in his internal monologue, Draco realized he was even more drunk than he had previously assumed. There were two tells: the first was that he called Voldemort by his name in his mind, something he could never manage sober. The second was the fact that Draco had acknowledged that sixth and seventh year had happened, something he did not otherwise allow himself to do. Perhaps there was some value in what Pansy had been ranting about – maybe he did have a slight tendency to box things up and shove them away rather than acknowledge the truth of his feelings and his ‘trauma’.

Well, Draco thought to himself with a grimace, he could acknowledge his feelings if he really wanted to. He could acknowledge the fact that at 16 he had realized that his life had been a sham, he could acknowledge the utter betrayal and pain he felt after Voldemort’s return when it sunk in that his father, whom he had idolized for most of his childhood and adolescence, was nothing but a power-hungry bigot. Draco could even acknowledge that he was truly, truly grateful to Potter every single day. Not only for saving his life, not only for speaking for him and his mother at the trials but for just existing and defeating Voldemort and being so good that Draco had been forced to acknowledge that goodness existed.

And while he was acknowledging things, Draco could also acknowledge, in the safety and comfort of his own bed, that his feelings for Potter went deeper than just gratitude. You couldn’t be arch-enemies with a boy for 7 years, you couldn’t fight with him and try to outsmart him and be generally obsessed with him throughout your school life, without developing more complicated feelings for that boy especially when he (at an abnormally young age) defeated the evilest wizard of their time and was your personal salvation in more ways than one.

So there Pansy, Draco thought to himself, he could acknowledge every bloody thing he wanted.

And if Draco’s hand had slipped into the waistband of his boxers while he thought about Potter and his penchant for doing stupidly noble things, his untamable black hair, his bright, deep, gloriously green eyes; his ridiculously-fit-for-a-teacher body and the friendly smile on his face every time Draco ran into him, then, sozzled as he was, Draco could also acknowledge, in that moment, that satisfied as he was with his routine and comfortable life, there was one thing that Draco did want, and it was the one thing that Draco would probably never have. But if he did have that one thing, Draco imagined as he stroked himself, he would run his hands all through that black hair, stare into those green eyes and do unspeakable things to that fit body.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The combination of the atrocious Muggle drinks that Pansy had made that night mixed with his own musings over Potter should have guaranteed that Draco woke with a terrible headache, but Draco had not accounted for the dreams he had all night, of brown skin and callused fingers touching pale limbs so gently, of green eyes staring into grey ones with desire and affection. But by the time he awoke, Draco was sober once more, and so he neither acknowledged those dreams, nor did he acknowledge that he diverted from his Tuesday schedule because he woke with his cock hard and leaking pre-come, and had to spend 20 minutes wanking himself to the snatches of dreams.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

As he went about the rest of the morning in an absolutely lousy mood, snarling to himself as he ruined yet another basic potion because of his lack of focus, Draco was forced to concede that he would have to deviate from his schedule further because he absolutely could not complete his assignments for the week for his Potions Master while he was so unfocused.

So, for the second time that day (first, if you pretended like the morning wank didn’t happen, which Draco absolutely did), Draco did something which was not on his schedule and went into his study to write a letter.

~~ Dear Ms. Granger,  ~~

[ _Too impersonal? Granger seemed unnecessarily distant_ ]

~~ Dear Hermione ~~

[ _This would not do at all, he had never called her by her first name, and a letter he wasn’t planning on sending was surely not the right time for it_ ]

Dear Ms. Granger,

[ _Just sticking to this is better, it was not like the letter was going anywhere_ ]

I don’t think I’ve earned the right to call you by your first name and other names I’ve used in the past are exactly the reason for this letter in the first place. Late though it is, I wanted to apologise to you. As little meaning as my words may have, I am truly regretful for every bad word I ever used on you, and I am more sorry than I can express about your brutal treatment at the hands of Bellatrix at the Manor. 

[ _Okay, that did not seem nearly good enough to Draco – if he was Granger, he would dismiss these words as self-serving lies, maybe he needed to give more details_ ]

Maybe my explanations will not seem sufficient to you, but since this letter is meant for me to be able to put down in words the many ways in which I’ve wronged you – I will try to explain anyway. For as long as I can remember, I was told that I was better than almost everyone else. I was better than Pansy, because she was a woman to be married off to someone, whereas I was a man who would command respect and a beautiful wife and carry forward the Malfoy legacy. I was better than Greg and Vince because they were stupid, their fathers who were minions of my father, whereas I was intelligent and destined to lead. And I was certainly better than blood traitors like Longbottom and Weasley who had no respect for the traditions of their world and more importantly, had no worthwhile status. And these are just ‘pure-blood’ witches and wizards I was thinking about. The idea that I would have to even face someone Muggleborn, leave alone find that she was my superior in every way, was something I could not even have imagined. 

And then, you came along. 

Imagine my shock and dismay when I found, right from the very first year at Hogwarts, that my intellect, which I had always taken for granted, was not a match for yours. Don’t get me wrong, I am _very_ smart, but the simple and viscerally painful truth was that you were always smarter. Always one step ahead. I believed, right to my core, that I had earned my intellect and my place in society by birth, through my blood, so I could not stand the idea that someone who had neither birth nor blood to recommend her, could always be so far ahead of me. Childish though it may seem, my behaviour towards you was motivated by envy. 

That envy only increased when I realized that my popularity and blood were not enough to win over Harry Potter, who was a celebrity even at 11, but that he would rather be your friend. Every year that passed, every obstacle that came your way (some of which, I am loathe to admit, were created through my machinations), you and your friends emerged victorious. I was jealous and resentful and not nearly self-aware enough to realise that those were at the core of my hatred for you. Once the War was over, and I finally had the self-awareness to understand how very misplaced my anger towards you had been, and how very badly I had behaved for all the years in which I had known you, I was all the more ashamed, and could not even take refuge behind misdirected anger this time. Although you have no reason to trust me, please know that I am not the child I was, that I am not the bigot I was, and that I have nothing but respect for you and for everything you stand for. I will not pretend that I am no longer envious, but I have at least grown up enough to understand that my envy is because you are a good person and the brightest Wix of our generation, and my admiration for you tempers that envy and always will.

You may wonder why I am writing to you now, five years after the War, especially when we do run into each other at the Ministry and at the British Library occasionally where you are unfailingly kind to me. Well, the answer to that is simple: I have recently been informed that my perfectly satisfactory and contented existence is apparently proof that I haven’t moved on from the ‘trauma’ of the War by an annoying woman I know and (unfortunately) love; so I am writing this not for you to read, indeed I never plan for you to read it, but to prove to her that I am perfectly happy as I am and I need neither her intervention nor your forgiveness. Or more accurately, I don’t deserve your forgiveness so I don’t think I will try asking for it. For all this growth, I am a Malfoy at my core, and we _do not_ do well with rejections.

I must stop at this juncture. Even if you will not actually be reading this letter, Malfoys are taught from the cradle not to put incriminating matters on paper and by those standards, I have already said far too much.

Sincerely, 

( _Was it sincerity if the letter was written with the understanding that the intended recipient would never actually receive the letter? Draco supposed so, since his sentiments were sincere, whether they would be uttered or not.)_

Draco Malfoy

Having completed the first of the promised letters, Draco berated himself and the cocktails from hell that he had another such letter to write. All this baring your true self business was very bad on the ego. It wasn’t so much that Draco didn’t realise he had been a less-than-stellar child, he certainly did; but having to relive that part of his life was extremely unpleasant.

But he supposed there was some value in what Pansy had said to him, he did feel _nominally_ better having expressed a lot of old emotions in the letter. Granger had been very kind to him, if he was being honest. He had first met her a year or so after his trial while he was doing some research in the Wix section of the British Library when she had walked in and he had almost given into the craven urge to hide under a table to avoid having her see him. He had somehow overcome the urge and when they did, inevitably, bump into each other in the History of Magic section of the library, he had nodded politely at her and she had nodded right back with a murmured good morning.

He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking anything of it, but since that first and most awkward greeting, whenever Granger had run into him at the library or occasionally at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley, she always greeted him, and in the last few years they had even chatted for a few minutes over a cup of tea in the café of the British Library. She was, predictably, the youngest member of the Wizengamot, and worked on drafting and pushing through anti-discrimination laws. Since Draco’s own specialisation for his Potions Mastery was in the creation of different calibrations of Wolfsbane, he and Granger often found themselves in the same parts of the British Library trying to unpack the history of lycanthropy.

As always, thinking about his work reminded Draco of the inspiration behind it, which was his nephew Teddy Lupin. Realising that he had not met Teddy for a few weeks, Draco drafted a quick owl to Andromeda asking if he could visit the next day. (Coincidentally, or not so coincidentally, Wednesday was the day Draco usually set aside for his limited social interactions anyway, so Teddy would fit right into the schedule).

As Draco shuffled around the house preparing a lunch for himself (Tuesdays were usually a salad, but the previous day’s libations deserved something a bit more substantial so he had decided to make himself a sandwich and tomato basil soup); he heard tapping on the window and found that his owl, Pharoah, at the window. He had brought back Andromeda’s response confirming that she and Teddy would be happy to meet Draco after breakfast on the morrow as long as he agreed to stay for lunch.

Sighing happily to have his scheduled social interaction fixed, Draco sent off the letter to Pansy as proof that he had followed through on his promise, and informed her that he was meeting Teddy which ought to count towards one of the outings that Pansy wanted him to have and should be additional evidence of his perfectly functional and fulfilled life. With a flourish, Draco tied his note to Pansy along with the letter and sent them off with Pharoah, feeling as if his morning, despite the shaky start, had ended up being quite productive.


End file.
